


Wobble

by marginaliana



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, M/M, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-15 10:32:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19612969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana
Summary: It came as a complete surprise to both Aziraphale and Crowley when the 'Please don't feed the birds' sign wobbled, came loose from its pole, and knocked both of them dramatically to the ground.





	Wobble

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to emef for beta-ing this!

It was the sort of incident that ought not to have happened at all. A demon and an angel, both blessed (as it were) with beyond-human senses, both aware of the world around them so that they could tempt or thwart (respectively) – they ought to have seen it coming. But they'd been arguing about who, in the end, was truly responsible for swans, and so it came as a complete surprise to both Aziraphale and Crowley when the 'Please don't feed the birds' sign wobbled, came loose from its pole, and knocked both of them dramatically to the ground.

There was a very tiny flash of light. Small enough that it went entirely unnoticed.

* * *

He was lying on the ground, which was a mistake, and his head hurt, which was an even bigger mistake. There was a man next to him who scrambled to his feet. "Crowley!" the man exclaimed.

It had the ring of a name about it – most likely _his_ name. He let the other man pull him up. _Bollocks._ He looked down at the now dented sign and gave it a kick.

"Really, Crowley, how can you be so careless? Although I suppose I was careless, too. But I was driven to it, you know. I simply cannot believe you intend to make me responsible for—"

Crowley – as apparently he was – felt a little stunned by the flow of speech. Especially since it came from a man as beautiful as this, all bright blue eyes and pale skin and rumpled, old-fashioned clothing. He wore a bow tie, which made a surge of fondness bubble up in Crowley's chest. Maybe they were involved with each other. That would be _wonderful_.

"—and oh, I think you're bleeding! You'll get it all over your jacket and I know you hate when that happens. Why you don't just miracle these things away immediately I'll never know—"

_Ha,_ Crowley thought, still dazed. _Good joke._

The man straightened Crowley's sunglasses and turned him slightly sideways so that he could examine the back of Crowley's head. Crowley went placidly, enjoying the sensation of being fussed over. It felt almost familiar.

It seemed a bit not nice to let the man go on thinking Crowley knew who he was. [1]

"Small problem," he said at last. "You see, when I fell…"

"Mmm?" The man didn't seem to be listening to him.

"I think I may have lost a bit of memory." _Or a lot._

"Be serious, Crowley."

"I am being serious!"

Something in his voice must have caught the man's attention, because he took his hand away from Crowley's head and leaned back to look him in the eye. He blinked. "So you are," he said gently. "How much?"

"Well, er." Best to get it over with. "I could do with your name and how we know each other, for starters."

The man sucked in a sharp breath. He was, for a moment, clearly devastated; then he blinked and the expression was hidden behind a detached vagueness. "My name is Ezra," he said slowly. "Ezra Fell."

That wasn't quite right. Why wasn't that right? "And I'm Crowley, right?"

Another hesitation. "Anthony Crowley, yes."

"But you call me Crowley. What do I call you? Not Ezra, surely." He could feel himself sneering at the name.

"Mostly you call me Angel," said Fell, and he was clearly distracted enough for that to be a real answer because he winced after he said it.

"Aha!" said Crowley. "So we're definitely involved, then." _Brilliant._

"We're friends," Fell said sharply. "Best friends, I suppose you'd say."

It certainly sounded like more, with that pet name, but maybe they'd broken up. Or maybe they were edging towards something and he'd just skipped to the end, gone too fast. Maybe he'd wanted it and Fell hadn't.

"Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to presume."

Fell sighed. "Quite all right, my dear boy."

_'My dear boy?' Just friends, are we?_ Crowley thought incredulously. _Pull the other wing._ [2]

It was all so confusing, and Fell's unusual calm wasn't helping. _Do something!_ he thought at Fell spitefully. _You're the one who's got the bloody memory._

But it appeared he wouldn't. "Well, Angel," said Crowley impatiently, "what now? Should I go to a doctor?"

"No, no," said Fell, looking alarmed. "That won't do. No, I suppose I'd better take you back to the shop."

"The shop?" Crowley wondered what sort of shop it was. Was it his own, or was it Fell's? If it were his own, he rather thought it would be something cool. His own clothing was a lot more flash than Fell's – faded jeans that were simultaneously too loose and too tight, a sort-of-velour jacket that was soft against his wrists. Maybe he sold jackets like this. Or sunglasses. He seemed like the type to sell his own style. If it were Fell's shop, it was probably something else entirely. Flowers— no, he'd fuss over them too much. Antique furniture? Fell's hands didn't have the look of hands that sanded things. Perhaps it would be… books.

"My bookshop," Fell said. He reached out as if to touch Crowley’s head one more, dropped his hand to Crowley's shoulder, and then turned sharply away without making any contact at all.

Crowley felt a momentary thrill of triumph at the correct guess, but it was tempered by mournfulness at the loss of the potential touch. He fell into step beside Fell as they made their way through one of the garden paths.

“It's not far from your flat, I suppose," Fell added, "but it's considerably nicer and I'd prefer to have good wine while I have a nervous breakdown. You'd prefer that, too, I know."

"I don't keep wine?" Crowley asked, choosing not to inquire about any previous nervous breakdowns he may have had.

"Well. You do – you just keep it at the shop. Or you drink mine, which is better."

"Better wine, or better that I drink yours?"

Fell gave him a fond smile at that, but he sobered before Crowley could return it. "Better wine," he said, looking away.

Crowley was still working out how to respond to that as they came out a gate of the park onto a busy pavement. Fell dove into the flow of foot traffic as if he expected people to give way for him; absurdly, they did, and Crowley fell bemusedly into Fell's wake so that he didn't have to make any effort of his own. 

Fell's walking speed did not lend itself to conversation, and so Crowley ended up watching him instead. He moved with a mixture of primness and carelessness – shoulders straight, hands clasped nervously in front of him, and yet he barely seemed to notice other people. As they crossed one street a woman wearing an absurd amount of beads turned to look at them, wide-eyed. Crowley found himself taking a step back in alarm at the sudden scrutiny, but Fell didn't even twitch. Crowley had a momentary urge to pinch his bottom, just to see if he'd get a reaction; he managed to keep himself from actually doing it.

At last they arrived at the shop. Or, more precisely, they arrived at a stretch of pavement with a car parked at a forty five degree angle across it. Behind the car, almost as an afterthought, was a bookshop.

It was a _beautiful_ car. "Bentley," Crowley said reverently. " _Fuck_ me, that's a beautiful car. Whose is that? Do you know?"

"It's yours, actually."

Crowley goggled. "I've clearly kept it in great condition."

"You've put a lot into it over the years, yes." Fell sighed. He put a hand on Crowley's shoulder, then snatched it back. "Come along."

Crowley looked at the car longingly but turned to follow as Fell opened the door of the shop and went in. The door windows were covered in dust, so much so that Crowley couldn't see his own reflection. "How d'you get customers in when the place looks like this?"

"Oh, er," said Fell. "It's a specialized clientele, so I've enough to be getting on with. And the atmosphere's important, you know."

Crowley closed the door behind him, absentmindedly skimming over the yellowed paper listing the opening hours. They were, to put it mildly, labyrinthine. The clientele must have been entirely composed of mind-readers. Crowley rather liked it – it showed that Fell had a touch of the selfish about him. It wouldn't do to be in love with a man who was too good. Unless that had been the problem.

He firmly closed a mental door on that thought and followed Fell into a back room flat. "I'll make tea," said Fell, and then, awkwardly, "er, you prefer the left end of the sofa."

Crowley shook his head but settled into the worn hollow of the sofa cushion. He tried sitting upright, like Fell surely would have done, but his body didn't seem to want to cooperate and he found himself wiggling and curling sideways until he was draped over the arm of the sofa with one leg stretched out along it. _Ugh, this is horrible,_ he thought. _If I prefer this spot, what are the rest of the chairs like, a bed of Lego?_ [3]

Fell was back very shortly with two mugs of tea. He smiled when he caught sight of Crowley's position, but the smile didn't last.

"That was quick," Crowley said, which was an excruciatingly awkward opening for small talk. "Guess you just magicked up some tea with a wave of your hand, ha ha."

Apparently it was even worse small talk than he'd thought, because Fell's face did something faintly wobbly and horrible, and he sat down abruptly in the nearby armchair. The mugs of tea went down onto the coffee table with a thump.

"Oh shit, I'm sorry," said Crowley. "Fell— Ezra—"

Fell gave a helpless moan.

"I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"Don't apologize," Fell said desperately.

"All right," Crowley said, a little hurt.

"Oh, for— It's just that you never do! And it keeps reminding me that you're not _you_ right now, which isn't all right at all, it's rubbish and it shouldn't be allowed and I… I simply need a moment, if you'd be so kind."

Crowley didn't say anything to that, which appeared to be the right thing. Fell put his head in his hands. For a long moment he didn't seem to be breathing, and then he sucked in a shuddery breath and slowly let it out again.

"Right," he said after a while. "Now what?"

It had the sound of a question that was actually a question rather than one that was rhetorical, so Crowley ventured a reply. "Is there someone we know that could help?"

Fell snorted, lifting his head. "No," he said. "The only other people that could help are your superior or mine, and it's best if neither of us sees either of them just at the moment."

"The… the only other people that could help are people we shouldn't see? Are we criminals, then? In the mafia?"

This time Fell's snort turned into an outright laugh. "What on earth makes you think that, my dear?"

"Well, you don't want me to go to the doctor, and our two – _separate_ – bosses seem to be dangerous in some way, and this bookshop is obviously a front, and I'm fairly sure you didn't give me your real name back there."

Fell stiffened. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Come off it," said Crowley. "I may not know who I am, but I know I'm the sort that can smell bullshit from oceans away." He found that he was suddenly angry, quite angry indeed. "And perhaps you've forgotten, but I'm the one who's lost my bloody memory, so maybe you could try spending a bit of time not actually lying to me!"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you!"

"I don't believe you now, so why don't you at least give it a try!" Crowley's anger flamed and then almost immediately guttered out. The thing was, he _did_ believe Fell, in a way. He'd followed the man back to this grubby little bookshop in part because they obviously knew each other and in part because he was truly lovely to walk behind, but also because something in him had decided that Fell was, somehow, inherently trustworthy. Whatever it was the man was hiding from him, there had to be a good reason for it.

And now Fell's face was doing the wobbling thing again. 

Crowley hated that wobble. He hated the way Fell's eyes got a little wider, the way his mouth trembled. The way he swallowed hard, like he was having to choke down his heart before it climbed right up out of his chest. It made Crowley feel things – unnameable things, intolerable things. How could this man be nothing but a friend when just the sight of his face in distress made Crowley want to find whatever had caused that distress and punch it in the unmentionables?

He'd always hated it. He'd seen it far too many times, most notably in the week leading up to when the world was supposed to end. He'd seen that expression directed at Heaven and Hell and the Earth and, worst of all, at himself. It was unbearable to see it directed at him once again.

"Aw, Angel," Crowley said. "Angel, no, don't— I didn't mean it."

"Yes, you did."

"All right, I did mean it, but that doesn't mean I _meant_ it!"

"Can't you make sense when you're being a… a…"

"When I'm being a demon, you mean? Well no, I can't, actually. Chaos is built in! You ought to know that by now, you bloody stupid angel!"

They stared at each other.

"Beg pardon?" said Aziraphale.

"I said you're a bloody stupid… angel. Oh."

"Crowley."

"I'm a demon," Crowley said, the word dawning on him like that first sunrise over Eden. "And you're Aziraphale, and you're actually an angel and I remember you, thank _someone_ , I remember."

Aziraphale's face did the wobby thing again, but this time Crowley could tell it meant something else entirely.

* * *

"You _were_ a bit of a bastard, you know," Crowley said, taking another swig of wine from the bottle. [4] Aziraphale had chosen something nice but not too nice, mainly because they both knew that they'd been getting plastered rather than savoring it. "Making it all about you when I was the one who'd lost my memory."

"Yes, well, I wasn't exactly having a lovely time."

"All you had to do was make tea, and you didn't even make it, just miracled it."

"It wasn't the effort of the tea that I minded, Crowley."

"What, then?"

"Oh, just. Nevermind."

The missishness made Crowley grind his teeth. "No, no, do go on, Angel. It's not healthy to hold things back."

"I've no need to worry about healthy," said Aziraphale. "Nor do you, if you recall."

"At the moment I recall," said Crowley meanly. "But who knows whether the memory will stick?"

Aziraphale thrust himself out of the armchair and turned away towards the kitchen. "I need more olives," he said. "And when I come back with them, I should hope you'll be done tormenting me."

Crowley thought about shouting after him – 'I'll never be done tormenting you, I'm a bloody demon!' – but somehow it didn't seem as much fun as it might have done. He kept quiet until Aziraphale came back, holding a little bowl of olives. Then he kept quiet some more as Aziraphale sat back down and ate olives with pointed dignity.

"Crowley…" Aziraphale said at last. "Please don't sulk."

"Why _did_ you take it so hard, then?" Crowley asked. "It was an opportunity, you know. You could have made me think anything, could have made me think I was actually good." 

"You are actually good," said Aziraphale wearily. He set the bowl down on the coffee table.

"Could have made me think I liked bunnies, even."

"You do like bunnies."

"I like _eating_ them," Crowley said.

Aziraphale slammed his hands down on the arms of the chair. "What is it you want me to say?" he roared. “Do you think it was easy for me to see you think you loved me?"

Crowley sucked in a breath. "Do you think it's been easy for me all the years I've spent pretending that I don't?"

Aziraphale stared at him. “You— Crowley. You… you what?”

“I know it's appalling, Angel, don't think I've missed that along the way. I know!"

"You… you couldn't possibly. Crowley—"

"I'm sure it seems impossible to you," Crowley said, with some bitterness. He wished he hadn't kept badgering Aziraphale, but badgering was in his nature. [5] "Here I am, a bloody demon claiming that I love you. But I do, Angel. I do." He couldn't sit still any longer and so he threw himself out of the chair, pacing to the kitchen doorway and then back. "And you know what the worst thing is? For twenty blessed minutes I got to think you might actually want me, and now I have to live the rest of bloody eternity remembering that feeling."

Not for the first time Crowley cursed the inconsiderate piece of metal that had had the temerity to bash him on the head. He hoped it was sorry. [6]

"Excuse me," said Aziraphale, and he sounded so sharp that Crowley nearly tripped over his own feet. "But if you give things a moment's consideration you may realize that I haven't said I don't."

Crowley looked at him. "… beg pardon?" he said.

Aziraphale's irritation faded into something softer, as it always did. "Crowley, my dear boy, of course I love you." He pushed himself to his feet.

"You're an angel," Crowley said. He couldn't help backing away a little as Aziraphale came closer. "You—"

"Don't be ridiculous," said Aziraphale. "If it was only that, I'd hardly make a note of it. Oh, Crowley, of course, of course I love you." 

" _Why_?" Crowley asked, and it wasn't what he meant to say at all. 

Aziraphale's eyes were filled with compassion, the sort that was uniquely his own. "Because you are beautiful," he said. "You make me laugh and you know my favorite cakes and you're willing to see Hamlet with me for the thousandth time when it opens next Friday—"

"Sure about that?" Crowley muttered.

"— and, oh, I don't know why else. I just do. I love you because I love you, and that is all." Aziraphale's hands reached up and took hold of Crowley's lapels. Crowley could feel it then, undeniable, Aziraphale's love curling around him, pulling him close like a soft embrace of feathers.

"Oh, Angel."

"You were gone, Crowley," Aziraphale said. "You were gone and this human was there looking out of your eyes. I like humans, you know I do, but it just wasn't right at all, and I didn't dare mess with your head because what if I did it wrong and you never came back?"

"I'm here," Crowley said. He wished there were something better to say, but this was all he had. He tilted his head in and rested it against the side of Aziraphale's face. "Angel, I'm here."

* * *

Later, when the two of them were stretched out on a hastily-conjured chaise longue, Crowley found himself running his hands through Aziraphale's hair. "It was your sofa that did it," he said, feeling a need for a little demonicness just to compensate. "Made me remember, I mean. The Spanish Inquisition had one of those, didn't it?"

"I thought you liked that sofa," Aziraphale said.

"Yeah, well—" 

Something in Aziraphale's voice caught Crowley's attention and he sat up. "You bastard, I've been sitting there for years and it's horrible!"

"Mmm, is it?"

"I only sat on it because you bought it for me."

"I know," Aziraphale said smugly. It was a good look on him.

Crowley swatted at him, which accomplished nothing other than to bring their bodies into contact once more. He settled back down again, trying to maintain a sour look but failing utterly.

"I bought it because I thought it might make you happy to know I'd bought you something. The old-fashioned way, rather than conjuring it up."

"Yeah, well," Crowley said. "It did, actually."

Aziraphale made a happy humming noise. 

"But don't think that will stop me from putting the fear of _me_ into those springs."

"I'd be terribly disappointed if you didn't."

* * *

Much later, Crowley said, "It wasn't the sofa that made me remember you."

"No, my dear," said Aziraphale. He stroked a hand over Crowley's shoulder. "It wasn't."

**Author's Note:**

> [1] A small voice in the back of his mind was telling him he ought not to care about being nice. "You ought to be a complete bastard," it said. But that couldn't be right. [back]  
>   
> [2] A moment later he thought, _Wing??_ [back]  
>   
> [3] Crowley had, in fact, actually slept on a bed of Lego once, and the sensation had embedded itself into his subconscious so firmly that he could feel the memory even now. [back]  
>   
> [4] The sofa was still miserably uncomfortable, but he’d had just about enough alcohol not to mind it. Much. [back]  
>   
> [5] Badgering and snaking and probably several other animal-based -ings, too. [back]  
>   
> [6] And if it wasn't, he'd _make_ it sorry. [back]  
> 


End file.
